


If Found

by BeaRyan



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Comedy, Drunken Shenanigans, Excessive Drinking, F/F, F/M, M/M, Public Nudity, poor decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 18:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2477579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeaRyan/pseuds/BeaRyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking Miles to an all-you-can-drink party at a rundown hotel might not have been one of Bass' better ideas, but at least he gave him an "If found return to" tag to wear. Pre-series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Found

**Author's Note:**

> The Hash House Harriers are a real group. They describe themselves as a drinking club with a running problem and have chapters around the world. In general, the more conservative the area, the more drunken and debaucherous the group. Thus you're more likely to find a long, hard run with Vegas hash and bottle rockets fired from between buttcheeks near a military base.

Drink #1:

Miles pulled into a spot in the parking lot of the rundown motel and stared through the dim early evening light at a group of people in tank tops and shorts gathered around a keg. How the hell had Bass talked him into driving six hours to Nowhere, Georgia for a drunken runners’ convention? Sure, Miles regretted the entire Rachel situation, but the promised drinking club with a running problem didn’t seem like the solution to anything, just a new version of an old problem. 

Bass practically skipped as he charged up to the registration table where a woman in a bikini top with a lanyard around her neck stood up and shook her bosoms at him. Miles watched the pillows bounce and finally understood why Bass had been so eager to come.

They huddled over the table and she flipped through papers attached to clipboards before digging through the boxes under the table for bits of fabric and plastic. Eventually they finished the exchange of money, paperwork and swag, and Bass slowly worked his way away from the woman, flirting his fine ass off as he made his exit, and came back to drag Miles out of the car. 

Bass said, “We’re paid up and checked into room 112. Wear this.” He looped a lanyard over Miles’ neck. “Fill this over there.” He handed him a red Solo cup and pointed to the clump of runners around the keg. “And try to have a good time.” 

Miles glanced down at the lanyard. It was partially pre-printed and partially written in Sharpie. It read, “If found return to CBC in room 112.” Under that was the name and address of the hotel.

“CBC?” Miles asked. 

“My Hash name is Cute But Crazy,” Bass explained. “Everybody gets a nickname.” 

“What’s mine?” Miles asked.

“You’re a virgin, so you’re just No Fucking Hash Name Miles.” Bass flipped over Miles’ tag where NFHN Miles had been written.

“I need a drink,” Miles muttered. 

Drink #2:

Bass draped an arm around Miles and gestured with his beer towards two women huddled in a corner going through the pictures on one of their phones. They were cute enough in the way of twenty-somethings who wear discount power suits with expensive underwear during the week and do jello shots on the weekend; not Miles’ usual type but the beer here was stronger than the swill that was common near base, and after a couple more cups they would be. They weren’t Rachel and that was worth a lot. 

Bass whispered, “The redhead is crazy, and the carpet matches the drapes on the blonde.” 

“How do you know that?” Miles asked. 

“We went on a midnight naked run together at NC/SC,” Bass answered with a wicked smile. 

“What the hell is that?” 

“You need another drink.” Bass gave Miles a shove towards the keg. Once Miles was in motion, Bass headed directly to the girls. 

Drink #3:

After he filled his cup at the keg, Miles turned back towards Bass, the crazy redhead, and the blonde with matching upholstery, ready to attempt this flirting thing that seemed to come to Bass as naturally as breathing, only to find that the three of them were already playing a fast moving game of tonsil hockey worthy of the gym equipment closet at junior prom. Miles chugged the contents of his cup and turned back around to the keg, letting the dark liquid run slowly down the side of his cup, as if a perfect pour could make everything better. 

Drinks #4 and #5:

“So are you a bartender?” 

Miles looked up from his cup and then kept looking up. The man was tall, broad shouldered, and looked effortlessly fit. His red hair needed a cut and his smile was natural and sincere. He was perfect for pissing off Bass. 

“No, just a casual alcoholic,” Miles answered. 

“Ever think about turning pro? You’ve really got a way with head.” 

Miles smiled. Finally something was going right. He grabbed a cup from the bag of them tied to the handle of the trashcan holding the keg and ice and poured a beer for his new friend, Jeremy. They drank and talked through two beers each, and when the keg started floating, they hauled it together to the U-Haul holding the replacements. They would have been a lot more fun if they’d had a little more time, but a herd of angry drunks beat on the door and demanded they refresh the refreshments. 

Drinks #6, #7, #8 and #9:

The keg seekers noticed Jeremy was lacking a lanyard and tag. He was invited to cough up fifty bucks for the weekend registration fee and unlimited keg access. He declined and left, which meant Miles was now alone and bored. He looked for Bass. He found a group doing shots of Jaegermeister in the hot tub. Among other things, he learned that getting hit in the teeth with a tongue stud hurts and breast implants don’t feel at all like natural breasts. 

Drink #10:

Miles reluctantly came to as the water splashed on his face. The water was warm, as was his left leg which was still in the hot tub. The rest of his body was cold and splayed out over the hard rough-textured cement beside the tub. 

“Wake up,” Bass ordered. “Midnight naked run.” 

“I don’t want to,” Miles said, shoving a hand through his hair. It was both stiff and slimy and he preferred not to think too hard on what might have caused its deplorable condition. 

“I don’t care what you want,” Bass said. “Take off everything but your lanyard and your running shoes. We’re circling up around the keg.” 

“I’m done, Bass. I just need to sleep it off.” 

“You need a Red Bull and vodka. Dr. Bass has you covered.” 

Miles gulped down the sickly sweet concoction. If Bass was pushing the Red Bull, then this evening was just getting started no matter what Miles wanted. At least he was drunk enough, even after his nap, not to care much what happened next. 

Once huddled around the keg with forty strangers, naked save his shoes and his nametag, Miles was forced to reconsider submitting to Bass’ leadership. There was something called a “chalk talk” during which a loud man wearing an open satin robe without pants went through a couple dozen patterns made from flour that would mark the trail. Everyone in the groups seemed to know most of them, but by the fifth mark Miles was lost. It was too much information to take in after 7, 8, 9… How many drinks had it been anyway? 

Miles grabbed Bass’ arm. “Don’t you fucking dare ditch me.” 

“Don’t worry about it. These things never go far or fast. It’s all just an excuse to get everyone naked. We’ll be back here singing songs and drinking more beer in twenty minutes.” 

 

Drink #11:

Bass was wrong. Three miles of hard running did a lot to sober Miles up, but it also separated the group. There’d been something called a “check”. Miles went one way at the fork in the path and Bass went the other, both looking for the flour that would mark the trail. Bass had found it, and he’d taken off on “true trail” in the company of four girls. Miles hadn’t caught up to them before they’d split at the next check, and he found himself moving with increasingly smaller groups as they divided and recombined, found trail or didn’t, at seemingly every corner. 

Now Miles was alone, more or less sober, and pissed off. Sure, he had the tag on his lanyard telling him exactly where he needed to end up, but he didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to get a cab in Nowhere, Georgia while butt naked. There was nowhere to hail one and he didn’t have his phone. Even if he did manage to find a payphone, it’s not like he had a quarter shoved up his ass. He eyed the cars coming in and out of the Quick Trip from behind the bushes and weighed exactly how difficult it would be to steal one with the keys in it and make a clean getaway. 

When Miles saw the oversized Keebler elf unfold from his undersized Ford Fiesta, his heart did a little dance. “Jeremy!” he hissed. “Jeremy.” 

The giant looked around for the source of the noise, but he seemed to decide he was just hearing voices with disturbing speed, and he headed into the store with barely a pause. He returned with a six-pack of beer in each hand and quickly slid into the driver’s seat, leaning over to deposit his beer on the floor of the passenger’s seat. Miles, recognizing opportunity about to fire up all four cylinders of failure, ran out of the bushes and knocked on the car window. 

Jeremy collapsed on his steering wheel and howled with laughter at the sight of Miles’ lily white chest and its scattered scraggly weeds of dark chest hair outside his window. A quick glance downward, confirming Miles’ pantslessness, only intensified the spasms. Miles jerked open the driver’s door and shoved Jeremy, but the oaf wouldn’t move. Had it been a four-door car the solution would have been easy, but it was a two-door. The glint off the lights on top of a nearby SUV - maybe for hunting but maybe a cop - made the decision for him, and Miles shoved Jeremy back in his seat and clambered over him and into the passenger seat as quickly as he could. 

“I need a ride,” Miles said. 

“You need something, that’s for sure,” Jeremy said. “You want me to take you back to the hotel?” 

Miles removed the tag around his neck and studied it. “If found, return to CBC.” It didn’t even say Bass, just the dumbass nickname of a guy who’d ditched him in the woods. “If you’ve got a better idea, my answer is yes.” 

“I’ve got a 12 pack and my apartment is two miles away.” 

“Can I borrow a pair of pants?” 

“Not right away,” Jeremy answered. 

Miles cracked open the door and dropped his return tag in the parking lot, then pulled one of Jeremy’s beers from the pack on the floor and attempted to unscrew the lid. 

“It’s not a twist off,” Jeremy said. 

“It’s not my night.” 

“It’s about to be,” Jeremy promised.


End file.
